Urns

Urns

I couldn't believe how many tourists wandered the Biloxi shoreline with cameras slung across their shoulders, pausing just long enough to wrinkle their noses before aiming their lenses somewhere else. Some had come expecting emerald-green water beneath an endless blue sky. Instead, the tide rolled in wearing shades of brown and bronze, as though someone had stirred coffee into its mouth.

I understood their disappointment.

If I hadn't known better, I might have thought the water belonged to Biloxi too.

Instead, I stood quietly at the edge of the shoreline, watching the murky Gulf carry traces of a river that had begun its journey hundreds of miles away.

It's funny how people think that what they're looking at started right there in front of them.

Do they ever stop to wonder what happened upstream?

Most never considered the winding miles beyond their view—the bends that slowed the current, the narrow channels that hurried it along, the storms that churned it, the quiet streams that welcomed it, or the banks that refused to hold it. By the time the Mississippi surrendered itself to the Gulf, it was carrying the story of every place it had been.

Perhaps people were no different.

How easy it was to mistake someone's present for their beginning.

How easy it was to judge the water where it settled instead of wondering what had shaped it along the way.

A movement just down the shoreline interrupted my thoughts.

An older woman, perhaps seventy-five, stood about twenty yards away facing the water. A small wooden urn rested carefully in both hands.

I wondered whose ashes it held. What kind of ending had shaped this woman's journey and brought her to this shoreline today?

Was she saying goodbye to her husband? Her mother? Someone who had once been the center of her ordinary days?

I had barely begun arranging the fragments of a stranger's life when another woman entered my view.

She came from farther down the beach, walking with the same quiet purpose. My thoughts drifted toward her instead. I found myself wondering what road had led this woman here, what sorrow she carried, what upstream had emptied into this morning.

She was younger. Taller, perhaps. Her stride was steady, her shoulders carrying the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to making difficult decisions.

Then she stopped.

Only then did I notice the small urn resting in her hands.

Who was she preparing to launch?

Probably her husband. Or perhaps the friend who had become her sister by choice.

Selah.

Before the silence had fully settled, another figure entered the edge of my vision.

This one was much younger.

She moved with the easy confidence of someone whose life still stretched generously before her. Her free-flowing clothes caught the Gulf breeze before she did, billowing behind her in brilliant shades that seemed almost too alive for a morning devoted to farewell.

For a fleeting moment, the woman herself became the attraction.

She looked too young to know this kind of grief.

Too young, I thought, to be carrying the weight of a life already lived.

My eyes followed the graceful rhythm of the young woman's steps until she reached the water's edge.

Then she stopped.

Only then did I notice what the young woman had been carrying all along.

Another urn.

Funny, isn’t it?

Standing here, spending the balance of the morning wondering what had brought these women to the water’s edge.

Almost forgetting...

I had come for the very same reason.

My favorite oversized straw bag rested against my leg where I'd dropped it earlier. The leather straps had grown soft from years of carrying ordinary—and sometimes extraordinary—things: books, groceries, a hand-crocheted sweater for over-air-conditioned restaurants and offices.

Today, it carried something else.

I reached inside.

Brass bangles slid toward my wrist. The brass rings on my fingers caught the morning sun. My golden curls slipped over one shoulder.

My hand found cool brass.

I gently lifted the small brass urn from my bag.

Selah.

I stood there for a long while, saying nothing.

The breeze teased loose strands of my hair while the waves continued their patient conversation with the shore. The river kept telling its story to the Gulf as though it had all the time in the world.

I traced the smooth curve of the urn with my thumb, the way one might trace the outline of a beloved face from memory. My fingers lingered over its cool surface, learning it again, remembering what they had never truly forgotten.

I found myself humming a melody that returned before the words ever arrived.

The tune settled between the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls, belonging to neither and somehow to both. I never questioned why it came. It always did.

Some rituals ask for explanation.

Others simply ask to be honored.

I looked toward the three women again.

The older woman remained still, her weathered hands wrapped gently around the little wooden urn. The second woman stood with quiet resolve, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, as though she alone could see what waited on the other side of goodbye. The youngest woman's vibrant clothes continued to dance with the wind, full of movement while she herself stood perfectly still.

Three women.

Three stories.

Three upstreams.

And now...

A fourth.

The older woman was the first to move.

With practiced hands, she loosened the lid and held the little wooden urn toward the Gulf. The breeze accepted what she offered without ceremony. She remained there a moment longer, her weathered hands now empty, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the place where the muddy water surrendered itself to the sea.

The second woman followed.

She never looked toward the others. She simply completed whatever promise had brought her to this shoreline. When she finished, she stood quietly, as though listening for something only she could hear.

The youngest woman waited.

Her colorful clothes continued to dance with the wind while she stood perfectly still. When she finally stepped forward, her movements were gentle, almost reverent. She lifted her urn with both hands and released its contents into the patient water.

None of the women acknowledged the others.

Yet they did.

Not with words.

Not with nods.

Only with the quiet understanding that sometimes another person's presence is enough.

One by one, they lingered in the silence their rituals had created.

Then, just as quietly as they had arrived, they turned and began walking away.

I remained where I was.

The brass urn grew heavier in my hands, though nothing inside it had changed.

The careful tenderness I had guarded all morning suddenly deserted me.

My fingers slipped against the smooth brass. I twisted at the lid harder than I intended. It gave way with a quiet snap that sounded far louder than it should have.

Before I could think better of it, I stepped into the Gulf.

The cool water rushed over my shoes, then climbed the legs of my pants. The hem clung to my calves as another wave folded around me, unconcerned with my hesitation. The water was colder than I expected.

The Mississippi had traveled hundreds of miles to reach this place.

Perhaps I had too.

I raised the urn with both hands.

Whatever I had carried upstream, I could carry no farther.

The launch was complete.

When I lowered the empty urn, I realized the shoreline had grown quieter.

The older woman was gone.

So was the second.

Only the youngest remained.

She passed within a few feet of me, her gaze never quite meeting mine. As she drew alongside, I noticed what I hadn't seen before.

Tiny paw prints had been carved into the little wooden urn she carried against her chest.

She smiled—not at me, but at the memory she carried.

Barely above a whisper:

"His name was Brinks."